


See You In My Dreams

by Larrymama15



Category: One Direction
Genre: Drinking, Ejaculation, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm, climax, dreams come up often, night club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 03:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrymama15/pseuds/Larrymama15
Summary: Harry meets a handsome stranger in a night club who he feels an instant connection to. The stranger issues a challenge to Harry. If Harry can make his subconscious comply, he might just gain more than he could dream of.Loosely based on the song “In My Dreams” by Ruth B.





	See You In My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This work is complete total fiction. Please do not ever share with any members of One Direction, past or present, or anyone associated with them in any way. 
> 
> I want to say a huge thank you to Jacky and KK for betaing and Brit-picking this on such last minute notice, you guys are amazing! 
> 
> I am @alarrylarrie on tumblr, come say hi anytime! 
> 
> Michael and Caroline are real people, a real married couple that I know. I went to school with Caroline. Her and her husband Michael always seemed like such an amazing example of love. He often told the story of how they met, and how badly he wanted to see her again. Tragically, Michael was killed on their dream trip to Ireland for their anniversary. Writing him into this fic was a way for me to give them a happy little slice of happily ever after, something that Caroline will never actually see now. But it’s a way for me to immortalize them and their love, the only way I know how. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who ever listened to me talk about writing and how difficult I find it. Thank you to so many writers who inspire me to even attempt this. And thank you to anyone who reads this, even if it isn’t your cup of tea or the fic of your dreams.

The garish, multi colored lights flashed and danced in time with the thumping bass line of a song Harry had never heard before. The beat thrumming through him, Harry attempted to bypass a gaggle of women in short cocktail dresses and heels, their faces perfectly painted and hair teased and pinned just so. 

He just wanted another drink. It had been a long day. 

After having given a rather formidable talk about the power of positivity and treating people with kindness at his old uni, he found himself being asked by several of the staff to accompany them out for a drink. One drink had led to several, and the initial intimate bar where the night had begun had led to this foreign bar/nightclub environment where Harry had to shout to be heard. Frustrated and exhausted, he had deliberately lost track of his old friends one by one. He was now debating leaving altogether, (after he downed one more drink of course) and began to pull out his phone to order an Uber when a man in a very bright pink shirt caught his eye.

The man was speaking with someone Harry knew from the university, but somehow, as if he could feel Harry’s pointed gaze, he looked over in his direction, confusion visibly written on his face. The breath left Harry’s lungs with an almost audible whoosh. 

He was gorgeous. His hair was hanging down on his forehead, but was styled to be that way, and a delicate wrist gingerly fussed with his fringe. Harry studied his face, trying to decide which feature was the most beautiful as blue, then green lights danced across the other man’s form. He had a dusting of stubble across his chin, a smart nose, and intelligent eyes, but what really stood out to Harry were his cheekbones. He looked to have been carved, rather than born. A creature of perfection so great had surely been eked out of mable bit by bit, rather than simply born into the world with the rest of the mere mortals. The pink of the other man’s shirt was probably only matched by the heat Harry could feel on his face. The gorgeous stranger leaned in to hear something being said to him and then threw his head back, his pretty lips pulling back in delightful laughter, the lines of his jaw and throat so appealing to Harry that he nearly dropped his drink. 

Harry stood there stupidly, heart pounding in his chest, willing himself to calm down. Another person hadn’t affected him this way in a long time. He willed the man to look directly at him, as if telepathic pleadings were something that actually worked, as if the universe would just make something happen.

The other man practically snapped his head to Harry’s exact location and the two locked eyes from across the room. Harry’s heart rate exploded, the blood roaring in his ears, almost drowning out the music entirely. He felt his entire face inflame, and something in the room shifted, as if the world had titled a degree on its axis. It felt as though all movement had stopped around him and he was underwater, the atmosphere liquid and churning, his vision blurry along the edges. The stranger quirked an eyebrow, his mouth gathering in what could only be described as amusement, their eyes still locked. He looked as though he meant to put down his drink, his hands moving though his eyes had not. Harry had not moved an inch, but found himself desperately wanting to, so he tipped his head in what could only be seen as an invitation, a question in his eyes. The man across the room broke into a full grin for an answer and turned to take his leave of those surrounding him. Harry gasped into the stifling night club air as their eye contact had finally been broken. 

The other man was soon entrapped by another friend who exclaimed loudly about seeing him in the club, Harry only able to see his broad back and what sounded like an Irish accent, though he could scarcely make out the words. The attractive stranger looked to Harry apologetically, and Harry smiled a gentle, oh well kind of smile as the other man lost himself in conversation with the Irish one. 

Harry, however, continued to stare for a full minute longer before a former classmate tapped him on his shoulder to congratulate him on his recent success with his book and he, begrudgingly, turned to face her. She blabbered on and on, and Harry began to feel guilty for not fully engaging her, but he couldn’t help not to steal glances at the handsome man in the pink shirt, until he lost track of him. His frustration threatened to burst out of him and onto the poor soul he was speaking with, so he reassessed and decided that now was probably the best time to take his leave. He apologetically explained as much to his old classmate and ordered an Uber, heading back to the bar to dispose of his glass. 

As he turned to head to the exit, pink shirt man walked directly into his path, a smoldering look on his face that set Harry’s teeth on edge and his face aflame once more. From a distance he was practically godlike but up close? He stopped Harry in his tracks. Away from the stupid colored lights of the nightclub dance floor his features were even more delightful perfection, his electric blue eyes intelligent and quick, his stride powerful and graceful at the same time. He was a lion, a hunter, and Harry found himself hoping he could be the gazelle. 

He smiled brilliantly and reached out a hand, Harry glancing down to notice a napkin proffered there. He took it and looked down, what appeared to be a telephone number scrawled on it in ballpoint ink. 

“What’s this?” Harry wondered aloud, immediately wanting to pull the words back into his mouth, as if they hung on a fishing line between the two of them. It was quite obviously a telephone number. But thankfully, instead of making fun, the gorgeous golden boy in the beautiful pink shirt chuckled.

“Maybe it’s love at first sight.” He smirked, dropping a wink that made Harry want to fall to his knees right then and there. His voice! A sweet honey rasp that made Harry feel like swooning. Was everything about this man golden and lovely? 

Still, he scoffed a little at the chat up line. He had been badly burned before by pretty boys with equally pretty lines, this definitely wasn’t his first rodeo. And there were other boys that were good for a night of fun, for a while. But love? Love was heartbreak. Love was pain. His disdain must have shown on the face of the stranger wearing his favorite color as a shirt, because his smile faltered, but only for a split second. He rearranged his face and leaned into Harry’s space, loudly faux whispering in his ear. “It exists, you know.” 

Harry couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine at the man’s proximity, pulling away to reveal a triumphant grin on Pink shirt’s face, Harry now rearranging his own features to hopefully appear less flustered, but likely failing miserably. 

“In your dreams,” he huffed, meeting the other man’s face with a challenge. 

Pink shirt shrugged. “Make you a deal?” 

Harry laughed, surprised. “A deal?”

The other man blushed a bit, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. It was a fascinating change from the person who had strode across the room so boldly, eyes targeted on Harry as if he were prey. He seemed almost nervous about what he was going to say next. Harry kind of really wanted to know everything about him. 

“If you dream about me, call me in the morning. If you don’t, then don’t worry about it.” 

Harry was taken aback. “But how will you know?” He questioned. 

“I’ll know.” Pink shirt said confidently, a tone that was sexy and dark and firm. Harry’s dick twitched in his pants. Something about the finality in his smooth rasp made Harry very interested in his dreams. 

“Your ride’s here,” pink shirt man said airily, and again the contrast took Harry by surprise. This man could change moods on a dime, and Harry was enthralled. 

“Oh. Uh. Um. Thanks.” Harry stuttered, turning towards the door. “Hopefully I’ll talk to you tomorrow…?” Harry let it hang in the air, hunting for a name to associate to this thrilling person. The other man lifted his eyebrows and shook his head no, Harry actively fighting not to pout. How was he going to dream about a person whose name he didn’t even know? 

“Hope so. Night-night. Sweet dreams,” the other man rasped, his voice full of sex on his last phrase. And with one last sweeping gaze up and down Harry’s body he audibly sighed before sauntering off, back into the crowd of the night club, his compact figure soon swallowed by people Harry hated if only for their opportunity to know him more. 

*****************

Harry turned the napkin over and over in his hands during his Uber ride home, his fingers tracing the script of the number. It didn’t even have a name on it. Who gave their number to a stranger without their name attached as well? 

What if it was a fake number? Some kind of joke at Harry’s expense? His anxiety began to run away with him and he crinkled up the paper and shoved it into his pocket, willing his brain to stop. He briefly considered texting the number to see if he would get a response, but something about that seemed forbidden, somehow, as if the spell would be broken, as if the other man would crumble and fade away into the air if Harry didn’t stick to the terms of their agreement. 

He slumped back into the seat of the Uber and sighed a heavy sigh. The driver was a cute, chubby, rosy cheeked blonde gentleman who was wearing an adorable bow tie and a cardigan. He shot Harry a sympathetic look in the rear view. 

“Girl trouble, mate?” The driver asked, cautiously. 

Harry laughed a bit, bitterness seeping in. He hated how heteronormative the world could be sometimes. “Uh… well… something kind of like that…. sure.... Yeah.”

The driver, who Harry just now remembered was named Michael, smiled knowingly. “What’s his name?” 

Harry shook his head before burying it in his hands, ashamed. “That’s just it, I don’t even know his stupid name! All I know is that he’s the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen and I want to know every single thing I can about him, like how he takes his tea and if he likes to watch serial killer dramas on Netflix and if his family had a pet growing up and what his mum is called. But I don’t know if I’ll ever even get the chance!” He groaned dramatically, before peeking up at Michael who looked at him in amazement. 

“Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.” 

“Tell me about it,” Harry said woefully, feeling defeated. 

Michael smiled back at him, a fond look crossing over his face. “My Caroline played some serious hard to get, in the beginning. She made me work for it. But I did, and I’m so glad. She’s the love of my life.” He tapped at a photo taped to his visor of himself and a tall, red haired woman, both of them with dogs on leads and matching bright smiles. They looked so… fulfilled. It was a great photo, a moment of happiness frozen in time, the two of them forever immortalized in their matching cardigans and cute dogs. Harry adored them and envied them, all at once. He wanted that pride in a partner. He wanted cute dogs and matching cardigans and smiles. He wanted to be happy again. Michael, he realized, what still talking. 

“I just knew it was her, from the moment I saw her. Felt like everything stopped moving. I’ll never forget it. Even dreamt about her.” 

Harry’s head snapped up at that statement. “Did you try to?” He whispered meekly, unsure if Michael could hear him. 

“Yeah” Michael sighed. “Kept picturing her face before I went to sleep. I thought about what I would say to her if I could talk to her, kept imagining ways I could bump into her. Fuck, that sounds super creepy and stalkerish to say like that out loud now, doesn’t it?” A sheepish, fond look bloomed over Michael’s face, his eyes focused on the road but occasionally darting back to Harry’s in the mirror. “She was just something else. And she still is. My gal, my gorgeous, ginger, happily ever after.” He smiled a tiny, private smile, and Harry was filled again with happiness and envy all at the same time. 

They arrived to his door quickly after that, and Harry thanked Michael for the conversation and for the ride. He tipped him generously and gave him a five star rating, also commenting about what an incredible driver he was.

He moved languidly to his door, reliving his nightclub experience, the colors flashing across his mind but in a much slower sequence, his mind working to reassemble the pieces of what had happened over the course of the evening. 

His phone vibrated once in his back pocket, signaling a text, and he scrambled to see it before remembering that pink shirt man had definitely given Harry his number, not the other way around, and the text couldn’t be from him. Disappointment flooded through him as he read a text from Liam about what to get his sister for her upcoming birthday. He didn’t respond. Liam was probably drunk, given the hour, and Harry wasn’t in the mood to entertain him or any of his odd notions at the moment. 

He threw his phone on his sofa and flopped down next to it. He felt unsettled, antsy, and far from sleepy. He inwardly debated his best options for a good night’s rest full of dreams. More alcohol or sleep aids would mean no dreams at all, so those options were out. He could lay on the sofa and watch something until he drifted off, but that usually led to him dreaming about whatever was playing when he fell asleep. 

He got up to change into more comfortable clothes, and decided to make himself a cuppa. His mum had always made him tea when he couldn’t sleep as a child, and he still used it as a trick for better sleep on restless nights. He rummaged around in the kitchen, stripping to his boxers as he put the kettle on. He had always been super comfortable with his body and with being nude or close to it. His mind wandered back to pink shirt’s body, his figure so compact but his stance so proud and sure. The shirt that Harry loved so much was a scoop neck, and Harry had been enthralled by the little peeks of the man’s delicate collarbones, the dip between them and his shoulders. 

As the other man had walked away in the nightclub, Harry couldn’t help but stare at his arse. The shirt had gathered at the top of it, black skin tight jeans clinging to his shape. His arse was incredible, the curve of it, and Harry’s mouth watered again at the thought, his cock twitching in earnest in his boxers. He went to press the heel of his hand to it, maybe give himself a little tug, when the kettle started to rumble, startling him out of the memory. He had been lost in thought for a while, it seemed, and as he poured his tea, he silently wondered (hoped) that daydreams might count as dreams, if he couldn’t force his subconscious to behave. 

He scrolled social media as he drank his tea, liking and commenting on discussion pieces about his book and his talk at the school that night. He tweeted a pretty bland tweet, thanking people for making it out to see him speak, before deciding to try and stalk the guy he had seen pink shirt talking to on Facebook. They had seemed pretty chatty, maybe they were friends. 

When he didn’t find anything, he sighed a deep, frustrated sigh. He elected to take to the internet to see if you could force yourself to dream of something through sheer power of will. 

“Can you control your dreams” he typed into the search bar, hesitating for just a split second before he hit enter. He so desperately wanted a sure thing. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he was hell bent on fully earning the right to call the man he’d been thinking about non-stop since he saw him. 

The first article he pulled up talked about lucid dreaming, which apparently was where you could control your dreams, but the implementation process suggested was weeks, and Harry isn’t working with that kind of time. He read a couple more bits and pieces of a few different articles, but nothing really gave him the answers he was looking for. He looked at the time on the bottom corner of the screen and blinked in surprise. He didn’t normally stay up this late. 

He suddenly felt nervous at the idea of going to his bedroom, so he decided to sit back on the couch and do what Michael had said he did when he was trying to dream of his Caroline. 

He tilted his head back and pictured the man from the night club’s face. He thought about what he would have said to him if they had been given a chance to speak for a longer period of time. He imagined running into the man at a lecture, or a book signing, or at the supermarket, both reaching for the same avocado or tomato or something. 

Harry smiled as he carried on full blown conversations in his mind’s eye, always starting with introductions. He desperately wanted to know the other man’s name. He pictured telling him about his family, about his life as an author and now apparently a speaker, about his past heartbreaks that made all of this so terrifying and overwhelming (and a little bit thrilling) all at once. 

He pictured the man’s body, his cock again twitching in interest. Sometimes a wank had a way of settling him down and into a good sleep, so he decided to run with it. Grabbing some tissues that always just happened to be right next to his couch, just in case, he wiggled his boxers down a little bit and took his cock out, giving himself a squeeze. 

Harry had always prided himself on a vivid imagination, so he wasn’t surprised when he began to fantasize about being back at the nightclub, pink shirt getting to him sooner, the two of them talking, then dancing. Harry began to stroke himself as he thought of grinding against that arse, his cock happily fattening. He imagined the other man dragging Harry into the toilets and dropping to his knees, those big blue eyes boring a hole into him as he wrapped a bony, dainty hand around his cock before taking him into his mouth. 

The image of the other man sucking Harry’s cock was immensely satisfying, and Harry was instantly pumping himself faster, chasing his orgasm. The practical side of him reached for the tissues laying on his chest to spill into, while his brain gifted him with the image of coming all over the other man’s face, come catching in his fringe and those incredible eyelashes, Harry painting those cheekbones that could cut glass in pearly white come. 

He came into the tissues with a hot gasp, his orgasm rocketing through his body, blood pumping furiously, heart beat again roaring in his ears. It was one of the most intense solo orgasms Harry had ever experienced, his cock still coming after several pumps, Harry having to grab more tissues to ensure he didn’t make a mess. 

He laid there a moment, hand finally stilled on his cock, breathless and panting. The image of the other man with Harry’s come on his face may have been invented by Harry’s mind, but it was still seared behind his eyelids. 

After a few minutes, when his cock had finally softened, Harry slowly got up from the couch and walked to his bedroom, adjusting his boxers and tossing come soaked tissues in the waste bin on his way. He was determined now. He would see this man, would meet him in his slumber, and then would get to call him the next morning, triumphant. All he had to do was wait to wake up. 

As he laid in his bed, he found himself beginning to feel restless once again. He tossed and turned, adjusted his duvet and fluffed his pillow but he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. He counted some sheep, mentally went over some phrases for his next speech in three days at a conference for a major employer one town over, and finally, slowly but surely, began to drift into the sweet release of sleep.

****************

He was in a field. Maybe. It smelled like a field. It smelled like he was outdoors. But if it was outdoors, why was it so dark. 

Oh. Ha. His eyes were shut. 

When he opened his eyes, he was in a field! It was morning, he thought. Or evening. Hm. Evening. Probably. It was a big open field and the sun was just setting, most likely, the colors so beautiful they left you dizzy, all purples and pinks and fiery oranges and gold light that shimmered in the field around him. The temperature was perfect. He felt safe, and the sunset was so beautiful, and so were the sunflowers around him. A field of sunflowers at sunset. It was perfect.

But he was alone? He frowned. He didn’t want to be alone. He wasn’t meant to be alone. There were birds, and insects, and maybe even squirrels or something, but in this wide open field of wild sunflowers at sunset there wasn’t another living soul present and it felt so off putting to Harry. He was in a beautiful navy blue long wool coat and a cream sweater, dark jeans and brown boots. He looked down at his hand and frowned again. He wanted to feel content. He wanted to be happy. He didn’t want to feel sad in a place as beautiful as this. 

He looked around him. He was on a picnic blanket, a bike laying down on a dirt path behind him. There was a bunch of really amazing food displayed in front of him, the spread was incredible. It looked like Jamie bloody Oliver had been round and set it up. Had Harry brought everything to this spot himself? 

He made a grab for a wine glass that was packed and a bottle of his favorite wine. He was rummaging around for a corkscrew when he heard a new sound. 

“Ah ah ah,” a familiar, raspy voice that Harry could not quite place, said. “Did you start without me? I’m wounded, Harold.” 

“Jesus!” Harry exclaimed, scrambling to his feet, eyes frantically searching for the voice chastising him. “Who are you and how do you know my name?” 

Pink shirt man materialized out of the sunflowers, wearing a gorgeous maroon turtleneck and a charcoal grey coat with dark denim skinnies and loafers. The hem of his jeans had been rolled and he had no socks on, a fact Harry only knew from rakishly looking up and down his body. He was only human, after all. 

Pink shirt man smiled a knowing smile at Harry, his proximity a little jarring. “I know your name because this is your dream, love. It’s a good one. I was hoping for a good one.”

Harry laughed, breathless. It was a preposterous notion, that this was just a silly dream. Everything felt so real. Even this other man that he didn’t actually know felt real.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Harry blurted out. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for ages. I feel like I’ve been alone for ages. I don’t like it.” He confessed, eyes dropping from the other man’s electric blue gaze. 

“Hey.” Blue eyes said, stepping forward and oh so gently touching Harry, attempting to draw his eyes back up. “I’m glad I’m here too. I’ve been waiting too. Somewhere else, of course, but I was alone too. I didn’t like it either. So I’m very glad to be here now.” 

Harry looked up at him then, hopeful. “You’re happy to be here with me?” 

Blue eyes laughed an affirmative softly, but not in a way that made Harry feel ashamed, quite the opposite, in fact. He felt something tug on his heart, like a door unlocking, like a key turning, like a latch springing open, like what trying again would feel like. 

“What do we do now?” He wondered aloud, gesturing to the blanket and the spread of food, and the wine. 

“Well Harold, I think the term is ‘eat, drink, and be merry’ for a reason, don’t you?” And blue eyes took the wine bottle from Harry and popped the cork with his bare hands, pouring them each a glass before settling onto the blanket. 

They didn’t speak much from what Harry could tell, just enjoyed each other’s company in the twilight that seemed to oddly stretch on without change. After they finished eating, they laid together on the picnic blanket, the other man running his hands through Harry’s curls, Harry’s head resting over his chest, listening to the other man’s heart thump. It felt so real. Harry was so at peace, so at home, so much so that he didn’t even notice the lack of conversation until the other man broke the silence with something about having to leave soon.

Harry panicked a bit at that, the world shifting. The sunflowers vanished and the sun dipped behind the clouds. No longer were they laying together in the idyllic twilight, and they were separated, Harry disturbed by the change and the distance between them. There was a car on the dirty path behind them suddenly, blue eyes illuminated from the back by its headlights. 

“WAIT!” Harry called out, reaching for the man, the sound ringing in his ears. His own voice sounded muffled and far away, as if he were underwater. “Will I see you again? Oh please, please, can I see you again? How will I find you, I don’t even know your name! Help!” 

Harry could hear the blind panic entering his voice, and he felt like he was reaching out but couldn’t not touch the other man, like something was pinning him to where he stood and it wasn’t fair! He wanted to spend forever in this world, he wanted to hold him, to scoop him up in his arms and tell him that he loved him.

“Call me! Harry, tomorrow, when you wake up, call me! Tell me who you are! Ask me who I am! You can make this happen Harry, I’ve been waiting too! We will see each other again Harry, just call me! I love you!” His voice sounded like it was coming through a string from a tin can, so small and distant and far away and Harry was crying, and thrashing around and-

*******************

When he finally opened his eyes, he was in his bedroom, the sheets on his bed now all bunched up around him. His cheeks were wet and his throat was hoarse, as if he had really been crying and shouting as he slept. 

Harry leapt to his feet and grabbed his phone off the charger, looking at the time. 9:07 am. It was early for a Saturday morning after a night out on the town, but Harry was bursting with the need to talk to his stranger. He wanted to know everything about him. 

He waited anxiously as the phone dialed the number on the napkin he had delicately placed next to his bed as he slept, pacing his room in nothing but his boxers, a semi of morning wood still pooling some of his blood and attention south of his waistband. 

“Hello?” A raspy voice whispered into the phone, and Harry sighed in relief. “Who’s this?” 

“I guess love at first sight does exist.” Harry said with a pause, worrying his bottom lip in his teeth. He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other line, followed by a delightful giggle.

“Oh. Hello there, handsome.” The other voice said airily, and Harry nearly fell to his knees to thank a god he didn’t believe in right then and there. “Did you sleep well? Good dreams, and all?” 

“Please,” Harry begged, desperate already. “Please, can you tell me your name?”

The other man hesitated for just a second. “Did you dream about me?” He asked. 

“Would I be calling if I didn’t?” Harry tried very hard not to whine. He heard the most delightful, contented sigh on the other end, which he took as a good sign. 

“It’s Louis. Louis Tomlinson. And you are?” 

“Harry Styles. My goodness, it’s a pleasure, Louis Tomlinson. So. Are you free tonight?” Harry asked, a bit frantic and very suddenly nervous. 

“Why, Harry Styles, are you asking me on a date? How forward of you. Next you’ll be telling me you’re the love of my life.” Louis breathed into the phone, and Harry was enchanted. 

“Yeah,” He said, confidence growing by the second. “In your dreams.”


End file.
